


Firelight

by TheCakeConundrum (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, No Plot/Plotless, Strong Language, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheCakeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She really <em>ought</em> to be going, but it's rather cold outside...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firelight

She always seems to find him when he least expects her. Today it’s the yard; the foot-flattened earthen space between the walls of the keep, alive with the ring of metal. Hammer on iron from the forge, and steel on steel from the sparring grounds where he stands watch.

Winter had come quickly, biting them all in the arse like a damned Stark direwolf. It makes itself known in the frost beneath his boots, which Sandor stamps to keep the feet within them warm. Mounds of dirty snow are piled up against the inner walls, a whole morning’s worth of work that would only have to be repeated on the morrow. His breath is silver mist when he shouts across to the recruits.

“You call _that_ sparring?” They stop mid-swing at the sound of their commander’s voice, turning wide eyed to face him. Sandor lends them a twisted sneer, feeling the tug of his scars more acutely in the cold air. “You’re the greenest bunch of boys I’ve ever seen, and I knew Joffrey fucking Baratheon. Right now, your only hope at winning a fight would be if the enemy pissed themselves laughing at you. This time, put your damn backs into it.” They still stare, and it’s all he can do not to hit something, to roar his rage at the grey snow-clouds above him as he would have done, once. Instead he only glares. “ _Now._ ”

They set to work again, and the song of steel strikes up around him. But then he sees her, and the noise fades away like he’s underwater. Like he’s drowning. She stands near the door to the great hall, where the stone walls are darker with age, remnants of its former self. 

_She’s_ like that, Sandor thinks as he looks at her. Some parts of her are familiar. Auburn hair, fiery as it had been in adolescence, falls loose about her shoulders. He thinks of putting his hands through it, feeling the soft strands against his calloused skin, the smell of lavender and lemons clinging to his palms. But so much about her has changed, too; she’s taller than she had ever been in King’s Landing, and while her figure had hinted at womanhood back then it is practically glaring at him now, even from a distance. The dip and curve of her waist and hips, the hint of her ample chest beneath the fur mantle she wears.

It’s only when his eyes trail up to her face that he realises she’s watching him. Eyes blue as Northern skies, never wavering from him, not even when the recruits step within her line of vision in their practice. Sandor wonders dully whether he ought to look away, if that’s what she’s waiting for. He supposes it’s hardly _appropriate_ , the captain of the guard leering at his lady the way he is in that moment. Not that he’d ever cared for propriety, in his old life or his new one.

He is still staring when her mouth, her plump, glorious, _perfect_ mouth curls up in its corners, the faintest hint of a smile. Sandor tries to keep his breathing steady when he realises it is no mere smile; there’s something about it, something catlike and calculated and _teasing_. 

His pulse pounds in his ears. Lady Sansa Stark, the Winter Queen, is throwing him coy smiles across the training yard. It is some bizarre dream, a delicious perversion of her usual polite expression, and Sandor considers striding across the space between   
them and showing her _exactly_ what she can do with that lovely mouth of hers. 

She is gone in a swirl of fur-edged skirt, so swiftly that he isn’t sure he even saw her go. Her absence can’t be denied, however; a gaping space where she had stood not moments before only serving to mock him. There is a pressure in his head and a tightness in his breeches, and he is glad of his long thick cloak, glad that when he turns back to snap further instructions to the guards-in-training they do not see that he is close to being just as green as they are. 

Above the frustration, however, is the almost tangible _fire_ he can feel building in his veins. It does nothing to ease his situation, or soften his barked commands, but it does set his mind to scheming.

 _She’s toying with the Hound._ Ever the proper little lady, teasing the only man who would never tell of her indiscretions. Sandor bites back a laugh, instead opting for a glare to the nearest soldier. His thoughts are far away. 

_Two can play at that game,_ he thinks, and he wants it more than anything, to watch her come undone under his attentions, the way she always seems to do with him. It was years since he’d found her in the Vale, but he can’t help but wonder whether some of Alayne Stone remained with her, a mark on her skin she’d never quite rid herself of. Perhaps he didn’t want her to.

_Dogs can bite too,_ Sandor reminds himself, as the first flakes of an afternoon snow begin to fall. He’d make her realise that soon enough.

*

She reads the letter again, familiarising herself with the words written in short, laboured script upon the parchment. There is no denying the hand, and it surprises her all the more to know the captain of the guard has sent her direct correspondence. 

“And he told _you_ to give me this, Willam?” The boy blinks up at her, all brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across his ruddy cheeks. 

“Yes, milady.” The lad says, with a child’s earnestness. “The Ser Hound gave me it and said for me to give it to m’lady Stark.”

Part of Sansa concedes that it makes sense. The proper thing would have been to send the message via the maester, or her lady’s maid; but Sandor Clegane would likely have laughed at such a notion. No, he’d sent the errand boy, a raggedy creature who had grown up in the kitchens, well away from the upper floors of the keep. She’d found him wandering around and calling ‘Lady Sansa’ at the top of his lungs, enough for the whole of Winter Town to hear him.

So Sansa lets her arm fall to her side, hand still clutching the letter in its grasp, and smiles at him. “Thank you, Willam. Go to the kitchens and tell cook you’re to have a lemoncake, on Lady Sansa’s orders.”

Willam’s grin is toothy, joyous, and he sprints out of the room at top speed. On the way out of the door he almost knocks into one of her maids, who has to stagger backward to keep a hold of the linen pile in her hands.

“Would milady like her bath?” The maid asks when she finally bustles in, setting the washing on Sansa’s chest of drawers. “The day’s a cold one, if I do say so myself.”

Sansa smiles at her, but it is an absentminded expression. “That sounds lovely, but I must venture out again. The captain of the guard needs to discuss some matter of defence with me.”

A crease forms on the servant’s lined brow. “Why doesn’t he come to _you_ , my lady? There’ll be snow later, and we don’t want you catching cold.”

“Lord Clegane has never cared much for... propriety.” She has the grace to sigh the word. She thinks of nights in the Red Keep, when he would find her wandering. The smell of wine had clung to his breath, and his eyes had roved over her with a hunger she only now understands. A shiver runs down her spine, but it is _pleasurable_ , some dark trembling thing she will let herself have, just this once. “I shouldn’t be gone very long.”

“As you say.” The maid acquiesces, beginning to fold the cloths- Sansa recognises them as her smallclothes- and place them in the drawers. “Best dress warmly, then, my lady. There’s a nip in the air I don’t like.”

Sansa heeds her, pulling her thickest cloak over her shoulders, fastening it at her throat. She pulls on a pair of fur-lined gloves, the softness of them enough to make her sigh, and then she makes her way outside. Her journey is not unimpeded, however; she passes retainers and servants alike, who greet her in their turn and ask her a thousand questions. _’How are you today, milady’_. _’We’ve a new son, Lady Stark, and we’re ter call him Eddard after yer father’_ . _’A new shipment of fruit arrived yesterday, m’lady, there’ll be lemoncakes tonight’_ She can barely cross the yard without passing a well-intentioned face, but she manages eventually, once she’s sent thank-you’s and replies left right and centre. Soft flakes of snow are drifting downward, catching in her hair, but she does not pull up her hood. Sansa loves the feel of snow on her skin; it reminds her that she’s home, and far from the monsters that woke her from sleep at night.

When she had appointed him captain of the guard, Sandor Clegane had insisted that it be ‘only fair’ he select where he lived. To her eternal frustration, he had chosen the furthest location from the main keep that he could; the old watchman’s tower, which stood beside the gate leading out into Winterfell’s godswood. It is almost a building on its own, and somehow it’s _him_ , a formidable sort of solitude she is intent on breaching. She knows it can only be in the literal sense, though the knowledge aches like cold hands.

The door to the gate tower grows ever nearer, and a spark of trepidation rises within her. His letter spoke of urgency, new defence tactics that needed her approval before he could implement them, but Sansa wonders whether he will be angry with her. She’d gone too far earlier, in the yard; he’d looked so intimidating, clad in his soot-grey cloak and snarling angrily at his trainees. There had been a strange sort of delight in watching that harshness soften, ever so slightly, when he’d looked at her. His eyes had roved again, something they hadn’t done for a long time, and goosebumps had erupted on her skin. So she’d given him a smile, the sort of smile Myranda Royce had perfected to an art, and walked away.

 _I shouldn’t have teased him so,_ Sansa thinks, reaching the door after what seemed an eternity. She has more than a suspicion that he wants her, that he looks upon her with something akin to desire, and though it stokes the fire between her legs it is improper. Highly improper. So as she knocks the heavy wooden door with a neat rap of her knuckles, she swears to gods old and new that she’ll not do it again.

When the door opens, he is but a looming shadow within. She can see the flint of his eyes, though, watching her. 

“So the lady answers the dog’s beckoned call.” He muses, in that low growl-voice of his. She ignores the stab of want that echoes down her spine at the sound of it. “You should put _that_ in one of your buggering stories.”

Sansa breathes in, steeling herself from his words. She might have guessed it would be like this. The time they had been apart has calmed him somewhat, taken away the bitter edge of him, but he is still apt to bite and snarl as the Hound once had. You can never quite shed your old skin; parts of it stick, embed themselves in you forever. She knew that better than anyone.

“Your message said you required my approval-“

“I know what the message said.” He cuts her short, and she is about to flinch when she realises that his tone was not angry, not condescending. Merely amused. The enormous shadow retreats a few steps inside the doorway. “Best you come in. Can’t have the Winter Queen freeze her arse off on my behalf, can we?” He laughs, a hoarse bark that makes her start. “Won’t your damned Northern lords just _love_ me then, eh?”

She takes another breath, stepping inside in one swift motion and turning to close the door behind her. When she turns back to face him, he is standing in the centre of the room, and she has a difficult time trying to keep the laughter in her throat. The lower chamber of the tower is modestly proportioned, a small rounded room with a beamed ceiling, and Sandor’s head almost brushes them in his height. It is sparsely furnished, as she’d expected; a withered armchair a reasonable distance from the empty stone fireplace, a rickety table and a single chair against the far wall, and a sword rack beside the door, steel blades glinting in the faint light coming from the slit windows.

“Come to see the furniture?” Sandor quips, and she realises she’s been staring at the room, at _his_ things, meagre though they are, so she looks up at him again.

“Pardons, my lord.” 

“Not a lord.” 

“Pardons, _Sandor Clegane_.” She can feel her patience beginning to wear thin, though the grey of his eyes inspires other things, too. “What was it you needed to discuss with me?”

He watches her for another moment, and she is held captive by the way he runs his teeth across his bottom lip. It’s a contemplative motion, but all Sansa can think of is how it would feel if those were _her_ teeth, how the rough side of his mouth would feel against her own. She swallows delicately, doesn’t drop his gaze.

Then he breaks the silence for them. “Over here.” Sandor turns, walks over to the table, and she watches his broad back as he walks. He still wears his cloak, and she is almost disappointed. But then she recalls the empty hearth, and understands.

On approaching the table, she sees a piece of parchment unrolled across its surface. It depicts a rather roughly-drawn map of Winterfell; she can see the edges of the keep, each of the towers within its walls, the gates and the yard. She meets his eyes across the table; his face is inscrutable as he gestures to the map between them with one large hand.

“Take a look. The guard patrols here,” Sandor points at the main keep, the battlements, the gates, “are all working fine.   
Competent men, seasoned and disciplined. But the watches here aren’t.” One long, calloused finger traces the outer edges of the map; godswood, wolfswood, and the Winter Town.

Sansa frowns down at the map, very much aware of their proximity. It wouldn’t take much, just a little leaning on his part, and they’d be touching. She sighs, though it has nothing to do with what he has said.

“How can I be of assistance?”

A snort. “How do you think? We need more guardsmen. I’ve a few new recruits at the moment, true enough, but it’s not enough. It’s wise to keep our outer defences just as strong as the inner.”

Sansa keeps her eyes on the map, though she can feel him watching her. The sensation blooms over her face, down her neck, and she knows without knowing how that he is appraising her again, dragging his eyes over her. She would be a liar to call that knowledge unpleasant.

“The young men who volunteered were the only ones able to fight.” Sansa hears herself say, voice inexplicably breathy. Her cheeks are flushed, she can _feel_ it. 

“I’m not asking for more Winter Town boys to train.” He replies. “We need fighting men. And we’d have them, if it wasn’t for your damn _pride_ -“

 _Here it is._ “It’s not a matter of pride.” Her voice has turned colder, sharper, the way her lady mother’s used to do when she wanted to be absolutely clear. “I will not endanger Winterfell, endanger _my people_ , by leaving their defence to a pack of wildlings.”

“When they came looking for help, you gave it to them.” Sandor tells her, heat entering his voice. She meets his eyes for a heartbeat, sees their intensity. “They’ll be loyal to you as any buggering man-at-arms. Hells, more so. You saved their fucking lives.”

“It was foolish of Jon to send them south.” Sansa replies, remembering that day a few months before, when hundreds of them had clamoured for help at the gates. “We’ve enough mouths to feed through winter as it is.”

“Your Lord Imp has promised provisions from the south for as long as they’re needed.” There is no mistaking the distaste in his voice as he speaks of Tyrion Lannister. “We’ll manage on that front. But I’m not sure Winterfell could take another attack, if one should come.”

There is a silence, in which their wills seem to clash without any sound. They stare at each other, blue eyes meeting grey, and in the end she is the one to balk.

“Fine.” The word is a sigh of exasperation from her lips, as she steps back from the table, straightens herself to full height in as dignified a manner as she can manage. “But _you’ll_ oversee their selection. And their training.”

“Seems fair.” Sandor grunts in response. “What use am I if I can’t do that much?”

It is meant as a jape, she _knows_ that, and yet she can’t help but feel a tightness in her chest. _You’re worth more than that to me._ She remembers the day he found her, the day he stole her away from Littlefinger’s clutches, and the way she had sobbed in relief and gratitude. _Does he remember that?_ She doesn’t know. His face is set stone again, unfathomable.

“I’d best be getting back.” She says, turning toward the door. “Or else I’ll be missed.”

He snorts again from behind her. The sound is closer than before, and she realises he’s walking behind her, not a step away. She almost sighs at the thought, resists the urge to stop, to lean back into him, coax his arms around her. Instead, she finds the handle of the door, tugs it open.

And is forced promptly back when the wind comes howling in, sending flurries of snow gusting across the threshold and onto the flagstones. It is all she can do to keep her balance, clinging to the door with an iron grip, until it is wrenched from her and snapped firmly shut once more.

“Damn weather.” She hears Sandor curse, from somewhere above her. She’s sitting on the floor, she realises, having been knocked there by the storm outside. Her face feels frozen, and the front of her dress is soaked through with melting snowflakes. She shudders, gets to her feet, tries to recover what dignity remains to her after _that_ spectacle.

“Is... is it a blizzard?” She prays it isn’t, that this isn’t the day the world changes into one of Old Nan’s tales. To her relief, he shakes his head, peering out of one of the narrow windows set in the stone wall.

“No. Clouds aren’t dark enough for that. Just a brief storm. It’ll pass over.”

Her dress is clinging to her skin, and she’s beginning to shiver. She tries to keep her voice steady when she speaks again. “When did you come to know so much about winter storms?”

“Since I came to live in the buggering North.” Sandor tells her, casting her a sideways glance. “Besides, dogs can smell a storm.”

“A dog might have _warned_ me before I left the keep.” She says before she can stop herself, and his mouth twitches into a smile. Sansa slowly returns it.

Then he notices her shivering, and the smile fades. “Bugger me. You’ll catch your death like that.”

The grin she lends him is tense. “What would you recommend? I didn’t bring spare clothes.”

Something flashes in his eyes at her sarcasm, but then she recognises the glance. It’s wicked, a dangerous thing that makes her wary and wanton all at once.

“You’ll have to take them off.”

Just like that, her face is aflame, mouth agape in shock and indignation. Sansa wasn’t sure whether he had actually _said_ it, or if it was just her absurd mind playing tricks. _He wouldn’t dare._

“That’s... I...”

Sandor laughs then, and it’s a hearty one. She feels it reverberating through her bones, and it’s intoxicating. “Calm yourself, girl. I’m not suggesting you strip naked. You’ve got, what, underskirts and whatnot?”

The twitch is there, in the corner of his mouth, and though she feels haughty she can’t deny the appeal of shedding the now freezing garment she wore. There’s also a challenge in his grey eyes, and she knows he is thinking of that morning, of the way she had teased him. He is daring her now, seeing if she will take a step further into the fire they’ve made, the fire she can feel burning between them.

It steels her. She meets his eye, reaches to her throat, pulling at the clasp there. Her sodden cloak pools at her feet, and she’d expected him to follow the motion, but his eyes are resolute, slightly narrowed and _shining_. 

Sansa takes a breath, and begins with her dress laces.

*

He breathes on the logs, feeding the flames he has conjured there, and he moves away with a haste that makes the little bird start. She has folded herself into the armchair, having dragged it closer to the hearth, and despite the fact she wears a linen underdress she has pulled the woollen blanket he handed her up to her chin. She is watching him with those big blue eyes of hers, and he quite forgets what it was he should be doing.

“Aren’t _you_ cold?” Sansa asks him, and he realises in that moment that he is, a little. So he goes to drag the spindly chair closer to her. He keeps far enough for his nerves not to be on edge, but he can still feel the its warmth across his face, his hands. 

“How long do you think it’ll last?” She wonders aloud, about the snowstorm beyond the door, and though he knows it won’t be too long he wishes it to continue for a short while longer. There’s a dark pleasure in it, in having her there to himself, stripped of her courtesies and most of her clothing, though he’s not sure he would ever tell her that. She might flee out into the storm in her smallclothes, and where would _that_ leave them?

“A few hours, at the most.” Sandor tells her, watching her rest her head against the back of his armchair. The motion serves to expose her neck, where the porcelain skin is tense and he can see her pulse beating. He thinks about kissing her there, licking her like the dog he was, and suddenly it grows a little too warm in the small room. The air is heavy with something he can’t quite name; it’s lust on his part, a recurring sin he still can’t quite tame when he finds himself around her. But he’d have a better chance navigating a labyrinth than trying to guess what Sansa Stark is thinking of, her gaze fixed on the flames as though she could see something beyond them. “Eager to be rid of me, little bird?”

Her gaze snaps up at that, and he is surprised to find a little of the fire remains in them. “You _know_ that’s not...”   
Her brow suddenly creases in confusion. “Did... did you just call me little bird?”

Sandor’s thoughts seemed to freeze. He _had_ called her ‘little bird’, but she’d never seemed to mind before. “Aye, I did. What of it?”

She shrugs, though the motion is far from careless when _she_ makes it, elegant as she is. “You haven’t called me that for a while, is all.” He watches as soft pink roses bloom in her cheeks, and he realises that she’s right, that he hasn’t called her anything much at all in the time since they had arrived at Winterfell, nigh on two years ago. His stomach twists, though he isn’t sure why.

“Is that why you sought me out today?” Sandor hears a voice say, a voice that sounds remarkably like his own, though he does not remember giving his mouth permission to release those words. “Why you were staring so _impolitely_ at the old dog?”

The blush spreads to her neck now, and it’s all he can do not to get up and bury his face there, in the crook between her throat and her shoulder. But he remains where he is, dwarfing the chair beneath him as he leans in it, looking at her. She’s looking back. Her face is all shock and the beginnings of a correction, but she stops herself, knows as well as he does that to deny it would be a lie. So she raises one red brow. 

“You were staring back.” 

Her tone is so stubborn it makes him laugh, and then he _is_ on his feet, walking closer until he towers over her. He sees her throat bob as she swallows hard, fidgeting a little beneath his gaze, apparently unaware that her mouth is hanging open in surprise. Then he drops, lowers himself so they are eye to eye, and he is sure he’s never gone so long without blinking, but he doesn’t dare break the contact between them.

“Staring, was I?” Sandor asks her, his voice low and strained. Sansa is breathing harder now; he can see her chest rapidly expanding and sinking beneath the blanket at the edge of his vision. He keeps his eyes on hers. “Like this?”

She seems to be unable to speak for a few moments, just staring back at him, caught somewhere between shock and fascination. Sandor doesn’t dare call it _desire_ , not sure whether he can let himself hope for that much. But there is an interest there, a burning, living thing.

“Yes. No.” The little bird frowns, apparently just as confused by her response as he was. “You... you were looking _all over_.”

He lets himself smile, and can feel the way it tugs at his scars, knows how wolfish and wicked it must look, but if she minds she doesn’t let on. He drags his gaze away from her eyes, lets it wander down the slope of her nose, her lovely parted lips, her delicate throat. When it dips lower, down across the blanket where he can see the faint shape of her breasts beneath the wool, she loosens her grip on it a little, letting the material slip off her shoulders just _so_. He takes in the soft whiteness of her underclothes, the way the garment hugs her ample chest, and he is sure he has died somehow, that all the Elder Brother told him about forgiveness was true and he’d made it to one of the seven heavens.

And then he looks downward again, to where her legs are crossed beneath her, and he can see the ends of her legs peeking out from beneath the covering, too long to be concealed. They are pale and slender, and before he knows what he is doing he is grabbing her ankle, running one palm up the softness of her calf. She makes a sound, and he is about to still his movements when he realises she’s _moaning_ , a pretty contented moan that serves to make him redouble his efforts. His hand passes over her leg once, twice, over the soft underside of her knee, until she shudders beneath his touch and he is forced to look up at her, where she is staring wide-eyed and breathless.

“You didn’t do _that_ this morning.” Her voice is a mere whisper, and he finds himself leaning closer to her, not caring if it is _proper_ , not caring when his words come out harsher than he’d wanted.

“I fucking wanted to, girl. Believe that.”

She inhales sharply, and Sandor wants to snarl, to tell her not to worry so much about his bloody language, but to his surprise she interrupts him.

“Don’t call me _girl_.” Sansa’s voice has strengthened in mere heartbeats, and he marvels in it, in the steeliness he hears there. “I like ‘little bird’ better.”

“Do you.” He is thinking then, and straightening up so he can look down on her again. She squirms in the chair, sitting up, determined not to lose his eyes on her.

“Yes, I do.” She replies, and then; “ _Sandor_.”

It’s all he needs to hear. _Fuck it._ “Stand up, then, little bird.”

She does as he bids her, still clutching the damnable blanket to herself as she gets to her feet. She soon drops it to the floor in surprise when he scoops her up, holding her against him for a moment, until he is sitting in the chair she just vacated with her on his lap, chest pressed against his. She is speechless, and Sandor just grins at her, pulling her somehow closer with one hand until he can whisper in her ear.

“I was a little cold.” He says, hearing her little gasp, then the light tap of her palm against his upper arm as she swats him in mock indignation. The courteous Lady of Winterfell must have been left out in the snow, he muses as he feels her breath warm against his own ruined ear.

“Then let me warm you, ser.”

*

Sometime later, when she is breathless from his kisses and gasping from the way he runs his hands over her, _everywhere_ , her head turns to look out of the window. Sansa feels her stomach drop when she sees that the snow has settled, that the world is calm beyond the glass.

She does not want to move. She’s quite content where she is, wrapped in the arms of her guard captain, and so she turns her face away, resting it against his shoulder instead. 

Sandor, however, has already seen what had distracted her, and she feels his voice rumbling through his chest when he speaks. “Snow’s stopped, little bird.”

She sighs against his tunic. “I suppose I really _should_ be going now, before people start to fret for my safety.”

He laughs then, and she lifts her head to meet his grey gaze. “I don’t bloody well _think_ so. Your clothes aren’t dry yet. Do you want to give Maester Samwell a fit by walking into the keep in your smallclothes and a blanket?”

Sansa huffs a little sigh at the imagery, but closes her eyes again, nestling her head against his arm. “Perhaps I’ll stay a little longer, then.”

“Perhaps I won’t let you leave.” Sandor growls, and she feels his arm tighten around her. “Perhaps I’ll keep you here with me until springtime.”

“Perhaps I won’t stop you.” She answers finally, and she is surprised by how much she means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Things we all know after reading this:  
> [i] I am way too excited for winter  
> [ii] Sandor Clegane 100% knew about that storm. You know it, I know it. It is known.  
> [iii] The description for this fic was more than heavily influenced by _that_ song*. Yep. It was in my head all day, and it's not even December.
> 
> [*it's 'Baby it's cold outside', btw :3]
> 
> P.S The little boy Willam is borrowed from starryeyedgirl's 'What We've Become', by her kind permission.


End file.
